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Little by little Bill Goodman was learning about his new partner, tucking away new insights and facts to create some kind of profile for the man he was working beside day after day. But nailing down the real Colin Glass was hard because a determined observer couldn’t decide what was authentic and what was a charade.
Bill had to admit that Colin didn’t seem to have an issue with being tied to a new work partner. He allowed an FBI agent into his world with a certain amount of aplomb, even if he wasn’t above trying to occasionally pluck his colleague’s nerves by being acerbic. During one of their attempts at surveilling a suspect, the two were seated at different tables outside of a small bistro across from the perp’s apartment building. Each had an ear bud in place as they leisurely drank coffee and tried to blend into the woodwork. Bill was attired in his usual FBI uniform of a dark suit and tie while Colin was kicked back in jeans, a hoodie emblazoned with a Arc’teryx bird logo, and a black baseball cap.
Bill surreptitiously watched Colin pick up his phone as if he was making a call. Instead, the agent’s earbud heard a voice critiquing his choice of apparel. “Seriously, Bill, that tie has to go. It’s mundane and boring just like that repeat pale blue shirt that you seem to favor. Do you order them by the dozen? I’d suggest that you be a bit bolder. Go with stripped ones in more vibrant shades.”
Bill pantomimed a little cough as he placed a hand over his mouth. “I don’t think I should take unsolicited fashion advice from somebody who doesn’t exactly look like he’s ready to be photographed for Esquire magazine. Do you even own a suit, Buddy?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, Bill — several, in fact, as well as a couple of tuxes. FYI, my dressing room has an extensive tie rack, a well-stocked sock drawer, and a smaller space where I keep shockingly tiny men’s briefs for occasions when I choose to wear them. And I can assure you, Mr. Whitebread, there are no boxers or tighty-whities in that lot of unmentionables. Does that intrigue you, Mate? If it happens to cause any titillation, I guess I should make you aware that my sex life is somewhat flexible,” the spy said as he looked directly at Bill and waggled his eyebrows in a leer that left no doubt that it was an invitation.
Bill stifled a snort. “Sorry to disappoint you, Buddy, but I’m a solidly heterosexual guy with a fiancé. So, you can stop with the fake come-ons to try to rattle my cage. I suppose you do realize that your teammates are monitoring our coms and have just heard you trying to proposition me as well as confessing to going commando during an op.”
“No worries, Partner,” Colin insisted. “They’ve heard worse things come out of my mouth from time to time.”
“I’ll just bet they have,” Bill said as he fought the urge to roll his eyes.
*****
Unfortunately, it wasn’t always just fun and games with these two men who were trying to take each other’s measure to form a workable relationship. An FBI agent quickly learned that his spy colleague could shift gears and adapt to any situation by utilizing the appropriate personality for the encounter. And he wore his various personas like a suit of armor. Lies rolled off his tongue as glibly as a snake oil salesman hawking his wares, and people usually bought what he was selling.
In more than one scenario, he claimed to be an orphan who had been shuttled off to boarding school at a young age. In another, he was a former college student reassuring his elderly mentor’s wife that he’d find her missing husband and bring him home. The guy was like a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma — layered, opaque, and perhaps intentionally confusing to anyone trying to get close to him. And that included Bill Goodman.
However, it didn’t take long for the FBI agent to become aware of one truth. Colin had amassed a stable of assets in the city that were fiercely loyal to him. He was like a sultan with his own harem that he cosseted and kept safe. And those shadowy people trusted him with their lives, especially when they were in danger and needed help. Bill witnessed Colin’s compassion when one of his contacts took a bullet, and a rescuer dodged gunfire to drag the man to a CIA safe haven to get immediate medical intervention. Bill would swear Colin’s concern was no act. In the moment, it was so real it was almost tangible.
Finally in frustration, Bill confronted Colin one day. “Am I ever going to meet the real Colin Glass behind your many disguises?”
The man seated in the car beside him shrugged and produced a rueful little smile. “Maybe I don’t know who that person is anymore.”
“That’s sounds like a sad state of affairs,” Bill said, putting a toe in the murky water suddenly swirling around the two mismatched partners.
“It is what it is,” Colin said slowly. “When you’re forced to live in the shadows for decades, coming out to stand in the sun isn’t exactly an option.”
“You said ‘decades,’ so would you be willing to tell me how old you were when you were recruited by the CIA?” Bill asked, wondering how forthcoming Colin would be, but he found himself surprised by the spy’s candor.
“I was 22, just graduating from university without knowing what I was going to do with my new degree or what path I wanted to pursue. That’s when I was approached by the Langley people who offered something that sounded intriguing. Maybe I was flattered to be one of their chosen people, or maybe I was just scared to venture out into the real world on my own. I’ve often wondered about the road not taken. But once you’re hooked and become an adrenaline junkie, it’s a true addiction that’s hard to break.”
“So, I guess getting out of the game to pursue another career isn’t an option,” Bill said slowly.
Colin laughed. “Operatives in the field don’t have the luxury of leaving to seek greener, safer pastures. Once a spy, always a spy, and we usually don’t grow old to reach retirement age. There’s an old saying in our world, Bill. Spies eventually die of terminal paranoia if a bullet doesn’t get them first.”
That prophetic statement brought a recent scenario to the forefront that had been burned into Bill’s mind. It had unfolded in a subway with Colin standing stoically resigned as a former trusted friend had a gun to the back of his head with the intention of ending his life. It seemed surreal. The betrayal must have been devastating for Colin, who only survived the encounter because Bill arrived in time to have his partner’s back.
It should have cemented their bond, but a suspicious agent still had doubts about his coworker’s professional integrity. There was obviously a mole embedded in the CIA, and it could be someone who had decided to enter the world of espionage when he was on the cusp of adulthood. Colin could be a double agent with his own agenda. Maybe it was time for a confrontation to get everything out in the open once and for all. Bill Goodman had reverted to type. He wanted all of his ducks in a row!